I gulped as the old-fashioned Peugeot 404 pulled in the drive, rims gleaming. The headlights illuminated the gravel as I inevitably stepped towards the passenger-side window. The Man was a stylishly old-fashioned man, hence the car.

The window rolled down. A cloud of cigar smoke burst into my face.

“Hello,” he simply said, his voice raspy but not unlike an old-style mob boss. Probably because he was a mob boss.

“I—I have it,” I coughed.

“Good, good. Now give it to me now. Or I’ll have to use a horribly cliched quote, like ‘I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.’” He chuckled at his little joke. Problem was, I knew that was what this “offer” really was.

I gave it to him now.

He briefly inspected the contents of package, then handed it to some unknown person in the backseat. “Well, I’m glad it’s what we arranged, but there’s still the problem of your previous actions.”

“Sir—.”

“I’m sorry, really I am,” he said as his chauffeur drove off.

Then my mansion exploded.